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Kazuya is cursing whoever the sun god is, because it's like that god is standing outside his window with a bottomless pitcher of sunlight, pouring gallons of it through his windows. The sunlight floods the room, and the shadows scurry away, to return at night. Which is odd, since Kazuya’s bedroom faces west, so natural light usually doesn’t come until the afternoon, and it’s only morning.
Outside, an engine, a truck probably, rumbles uncommonly loudly, a disturbance to this quaint town, where nothing extraordinary nor terrible happens. The new neighbors are moving in today, Kazuya notes absentmindedly, still in his sleepy daze. He only prays that they’re quieter than their predecessors, whose nocturnal German shepherd ensured that Kazuya never had an undisturbed night of sleep.
In retrospect, perhaps the sunlight was a premonition of the turn that his life was about to take. But for now, he pulls the mask back over his eyes, rolls over onto his other side, and readjusts his blankets. After all, it was midway through summer break.
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Kazuya is securing the lid to the trash can - taking out the trash may be his least favorite household chore, but that doesn't make it any less necessary - when he hears, “Catch!” and the all-too-familiar whizzing of an object slicing the air. Instinctively, his left hand shoots out to, well, catch, but more importantly, shield himself, because that's a flying projectile, and he doesn't want to sustain a head injury. Without his yellow mitt however, the baseball slams into his palm with a burning impact that almost has him dropping it.
He turns toward the direction of the ball’s origin and spies a boy bounding over with way too much energy, like a puppy. So the new family’s also got a dog, except this one even bigger, human-sized.
“Hey,” the boy says, breathless and holding his hand out for the ball. “Nice catch!”
Kazuya snorts, almost cockily. “Of course.” He carelessly tosses the ball back, with the pinpoint accuracy that hours of training had yielded, though slightly off to the side so that the boy has to lunge for it.
He’s about to make a start back to his house, when “Wait,“ and there’s a hand on his forearm, warm and slightly sticky with sweat. Kazuya almost shakes it off, a retort at the tip of his tongue, but he’s pushed back by the gleam of the boy’s eyes. They’re golden, blazing with fire. “Catch for me!” This kid’s all brashness, as if they hadn’t just met, if you could call chucking balls at strangers a meeting. He hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself, no regard for basic manners.
A true dog. Kazuya almost busts out laughing, but he maintains his distance. “Nah. Only good dogs deserve to play.”
The boy’s face contorts with confusion, eyebrows scrunching together. “What does that even mean?!” He calls out, indignant, but Kazuya is already cackling as he shuts the front door.
Because beneath the gross feeling of dirt and sweat, there were calluses, and that boy’s hand was lined full of them.
----------
It’s nine in the morning, and usually Kazuya wouldn’t get up before the clock hit double-digits, but on Wednesday’s, the market gets a fresh shipment of fish, and Kazuya wants the best selection before the stand is ransacked by aggressive mothers and grandmothers. He debates whether he should treat himself to the more expensive salmon, and adds green onions to his mental grocery list - he used up the last stalk for last night’s miso soup.
He’s slipping the key to lock the front door, rattling the rusty keyhole that has long been in need of oiling, when footsteps pound behind him.
“Miyuki Kazuya!!” The boy from yesterday is talking, yelling, at a volume too high for this time of day, and Kazuya considers buying ear plugs as well.
He turns around. This close up, the boy is a centimeter or two shorter, though Kazuya’s estimate might be a bit off. He’s dressed in a plain white T-shirt that clings to his shoulders, not unattractively, paired with worn athletic shorts with a stripe running down the seams, and his hair is damp with what Kazuya suspects isn’t water. He wrinkles his nose. “What? Do you need something?” Realizing that he never even told the boy his name, he adds, “How do you even know me?”
Kazuya’s neighbor bows, his brown, sun-streaked hair falling forward. “This is Sawamura Eijun! I met your dad yesterday and he told me that he had a son my age!”
Kazuya’s chest tightens at the mentioning of his only parent, who’s home less than he’s out. If Kazuya didn't wake up before ten in the morning, then his father didn’t come home before ten at night. There was a time when he would feel a sort of anger towards him, but now it’s resignedness, even a bit understanding. Because his father works tirelessly as the breadwinner of this two-person family, even if Kazuya would’ve forgone the extra cash. He readjusts the reusable shopping bag, which would save him a few coins from the plastic bag tax, on his shoulder. “And? What do you want?”
Sawamura straightens into a soldier stance, arms ruler straight by his side, minus the salute, and exclaims, “Please catch for me! Most people say that my pitches are disgusting, but you caught my throw on your first try, and you weren’t even looking!”
Kazuya preens inside, but he shrugs, “Must’ve been dumb luck.” Then, “Wait, you’re a pitcher?”
Sawamura nods eagerly, his fluffy hair flopping up and down in tune with his head motions. “I’m a first-year pitcher for Seidou High School! I’m going to be the ace!”
Seidou High School. The name stirs something in Kazuya’s memory, and Kazuya recalls watching a qualifying match on TV, recently broadcasted on the NHK sports channel. It’s a famous boarding school in Tokyo, a school that many pros have proudly declared as their alma mater, one Kazuya maybe would’ve tried to test into, back when he had been a hopeful middle schooler with dreams not yet grounded in reality. But in the final round, Seidou had lost to Inashiro Industrial.
That’d make sense. Because the Summer Koshien is ongoing, and Sawamura is here, and not in Nishinomiya.
Kazuya’s interest has been piqued. “Sure,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “I’ll catch for you.” The corner of his mouth rises deviously. “Only if you promise to do one thing for me.”
“Anything,” Sawamura answers immediately.
And that’s how Kazuya acquired a shopping cart for the week. The farmer’s market was a good mile trek from his house, so he could really use a mule. Kazuya bought more food than usual, and didn’t let up a hand when Sawamura struggled to keep his grasp on all the groceries, making an excuse that he needed to preserve his hands and strength for catching.
“But what about my hands?!” Sawamura had protested, and Kazuya had only laughed.
----------
“So? You drag me out here; you better show me something good.” Kazuya squints at the sun overhead; it’s beating down relentlessly. It’s really hot, even for summer. He’s only been outside for maybe fifteen minutes max, but he can already feel a drop of sweat trickling down his forehead. Kneeling into a half squat, with one leg supporting his body on the ground, he balances out his weight and finds his favorite position.
Sawamura puts both hands on his hips and says, “Are you not gonna put on your gear?” Standing on the mound, Kazuya thinks, Sawamura probably needs the protection more. He’s the type to trip on the mound.
“I can catch whatever you hurl at me.” Kazuya smirks, intending to get a rise out of the pitcher. "But meatballs are your specialty, right?” Kazuya’s worked with several pitchers in his history of catching. One was rather spineless, too easily demotivated, and Kazuya was always sure to watch his words around him. Another was arrogant and prideful, requiring Kazuya to check him ruthlessly with scathing criticisms to guarantee that he didn’t ignore Kazuya’s calls. The most amusing one, though, was the one with the volatile temper, but also, when riled up, pitched his best, and Kazuya has a feeling that Sawamura was similar.
It works. “I’ll show you!”
And Sawamura winds up; his right leg rising up impossibly high, then swinging down in sync with his throwing arm that seems to appear out of nowhere, as a ball soars with a life of its own, forging a path -
Into Kazuya’s mitt.
Kazuya would do this again and again, at boiling or freezing temperatures, at the crack of dawn or the stroke of midnight, just to see Sawamura’s jaw drop open. Sawamura’s too surprised to see the ball snug in the mitt and not rolling in the dirt next to him. Though, honestly, Kazuya can’t claim that he himself is any less surprised. “Is that all you’ve got,” he challenges, chucking the ball back at Sawamura, who catches it begrudgingly, . “A five year-old could’ve homered off that!”
Sawamura glowers. “That was just a warm-up! So shut up, sit down, and brace yourself for this next one!"
Who is Kazuya kidding? Even as clean-up, catcher, and captain of the mediocre Akagi High School team, he wasn’t sure whether he could’ve even predicted the baseball’s path from the batter’s box, let alone hit it.
----------
“Are you even gonna do anything this summer?” Kuramochi is sprawled on Kazuya’s bed, lying on his stomach and inspecting his fingernails. Vacation is supposed to be a break from school, but not for athletes - Kuramochi had spent all day at track practice. He exhales loudly into Kazuya’s pillow, and Kazuya cringes. “I can’t move. Coach made us do sprints all day."
“Only all day? Pity he didn't make you do them all night too. You deserve it.” Kazuya says, sending his only friend a disgusted glare. “You’re dirtying my sheets.”
Kuramochi sticks out his tongue like the demon-in-disguise he is. “If you’re just gonna laze around at home all break, then more housework should be no big deal!”
Kazuya mentally debates whether it’s worth the effort to push Kuramochi off the bed, when a laugh so loud it echoes makes its way to Kazuya’s second-floor window. Kuramochi races to the window with a dexterity that contradicts his exhaustion, and he peers out the screen. “Did the Yamamotos finally leave? That 'For Sale' sign had been up for years. Though I don’t know why anyone would want to move here.”
Kazuya stands up and walks over. “Yeah. They’ve been replaced by this annoying brat.”
As if the person-in-question heard Kazuya talking about him, Sawamura suddenly looks up. “Miyuki Kazuya!!” He waves his hand enthusiastically in greeting, as if his arm were a windshield wiper working at three times the normal speed.
“Oh?” Kuramochi raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you to be the type to befriend little kids.”
“That’s Sawamura. And he came to me, because I’m just that popular.” Kuramochi snorts and Kazuya stretches, rolling his shoulders back in circular motions. Sawamura had forced him, zero willingness on Kazuya’s part, to catch for almost two hours, and now he was paying the price. Kazuya thinks it's a little ironic that he'd described Sawamura as being a dog, yet it was Kazuya himself who was doing all the catching. Maybe he should try a different tactic; swap their roles, and substitute the ball with a stick. “He’s flexible - wrists, shoulders; you should practice your wrestling moves on him.” Kazuya leans closer to the window: “Oi, Sawamura! Wanna meet someone?”
Sawamura perks up, and Kazuya lets his plan fall into place. Kuramochi might as well take up babysitting duty, if he was gonna make Kazuya do unnecessary laundry.
----------
Sawamura manages to worm his way into Kazuya’s life, and within a week, Kazuya can expect to wake up to Sawamura banging on his front door, begging Kazuya to catch for him. And while Kazuya pretends to do so out of his own grace and kindness, he can’t deny that Sawamura’s pitches are definitely intriguing, and catching for Sawamura is also an indulgence for himself. But one day, Kazuya unlocks the door to see Sawamura holding not a baseball but a magnifying glass.
“Ah,” Kazuya plucks the tool from Sawamura’s fingers, fingers brushing against fingers. “Is this for me?”
“Yes! Today we’re going to catch beetles!” Sawamura grins boyishly, his teeth flashing and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “So hurry up and change," he says, taking in the rolled-up sleeves of Kazuya's wrinkled pajama shirt and training pants with distaste.
“Why do I need to go out of my way to find backyard pests when they voluntarily come to me?
Sawamura blinks, confused, thick, dark lashes fluttering, before the realization settles in. “Hey!" Sawamura shouts, swiping for Kazuya's shirt collar, but Kazuya ducks just out of reach, and uses the magnifying glass to fend off Sawamura. "Who’re you calling a pest?!”
Kazuya laughs, returning to the kitchen. His neighbor shakes off his sneakers and slips into the house slippers that Kazuya has been accustomed to leave next to the floor mat, to keep Sawamura from tracking more dirt into the house.
“Oh, were you in the middle of breakfast?” Sawamura doesn’t sound apologetic at all.
Kazuya sits down in front of his unfinished meal. “I’m almost done.” He picks up a single soybean with his chopsticks, watching as the sticky threads become thinner and thinner as he pulls it farther and farther away from the rest of the natto, until the last one finally snaps. “Can you entertain yourself for five minutes?”
Sawamura plops down directly across from Kazuya and whips out his phone from his back pocket. “Natto is gross.”
“Natto is nutritious, and is chockfull of protein,” Kazuya recites, feeling like a poorly-made advertisement. He traps a bean between his teeth, and shows Sawamura.
Kazuya can almost see the gears turning in Sawamura’s head. Maybe he’s reconstructing his diet. Sawamura stares at something on his phone. “I’m leaving soon,” he mentions absentmindedly, as his thumb scrolls downward repeatedly on the touchscreen.
“Soon?" Kazuya looks up, but Sawamura doesn’t return his gaze. "To where?”
“Back to Seidou. Coach organized a bunch of practice matches throughout the end of summer break, and I have to practice. So that I can beat Furuya!” Sawamura declares, determined. It’s with such an uncharacteristic seriousness, the way Sawamura just penned out his goals, that Kazuya spots a hint of the dedication Sawamura has to baseball. His fist pounds once against the wooden dining table, making the bowl shudder and chopsticks tremble.
“Oh.”
Sawamura fidgets, finally slapping his phone face down, glass that Kazuya hopes is shatterproof against polished wood, on the table. “That’s why I run every morning, because I have to stay in tip-top condition. Usually I run with a tire, but I had to leave him back at school.
A chuckle finds its way out from Kazuya’s tight throat. “Him? The tire?”
“Yes!” Sawamura throws his fist up into the air, and Kazuya eyes Sawamura's phone warily in case Sawamura ends up knocking it onto the ground. “I tie it around my waist, and I run around the field. It helps build endurance!”
The image forms in Kazuya’s mind, and a braying laugh escapes, releasing him from the unexpected sadness of Sawamura’s soon departure. “Tires don’t have gender, stupid. But Sawamura,” Kazuya gets up, walking over to the sink to wash his dishes. “Even if you run a thousand miles, you won’t get any smarter!”
Kazuya spends the rest of the day in the forest neighboring their houses, crouched as Sawamura introduces him to the hidden world of insects beneath the blanket of rocks and leaves. Even though Kazuya refuses to touch the rhinoceros beetle, ebony black and shiny and bearing a Y-shaped horn, he can’t help but listen carefully as Sawamura delves into a spiel about obscure beetle facts, rambling about life cycles, fighting styles, and mating. He can’t help but watch Sawamura glow under the komorebi, the sunlight filtered through the trees. It’s the last time he sees Sawamura before he, two days later, equipped with a single duffle bag, leaves rural Nagano for urban Tokyo, leaves the unkempt fields for Seido’s undoubtedly polished facilities, leaves Kazuya for a team that shares his unrivaled passion for baseball.
Kazuya never said goodbye.
----------
For the rest of the summer, Kazuya occupies himself with keeping house, teasing Kuramochi, and pretending his days don’t feel a bit empty. When school resumes, so do preparations for the Fall Tournament, but since Nagano competes in the Hokushin’etsu region, unless they, by some miracle, win the qualifiers, they’ll never meet Seidou on the same baseball field.
One evening, late enough that Kazuya knows his father is home because of the pitter-pattering downstairs, Kazuya's working on an essay due the next week. The word processor is open, and there's a brief outline, just some bullet points of scattered arguments he wanted to include, but he's hit a writer’s block, and doesn't know quite how to continue the introduction. Giving up, he saves the document and closes the app. He’s about to close his laptop too, but just out of a moment of curiosity, he pulls up the web browser, switches to incognito mode, and types into the search bar: "seidou high school baseball." On second thought, he adds "sawamura,” before hitting enter.
Sawamura isn't featured in any of the articles, only briefly mentioned in the sports sections of local newspapers about Seidou's wins. Instead, Furuya, conned the ‘monster rookie’ by reporters, takes the spotlight with his fastball and above-average batting, even smacking a homer out of the park. It’s rare when someone, especially a pitcher, excels at both offense and defense, and Kazuya can understand why Furuya gets so much attention. He toys with the idea of catching Furuya’s pitches; his own pitchers have adopted the role more out of circumstance than choice, and while Kazuya tries his best to maximize their potential, he still dreams of a battery-mate who matches him in ability and spirit.
And Kazuya discovers, while skimming through video recaps of the preliminaries of the summer, that Sawamura loves to fearlessly battle in the inside. That he can bring up the team's mood with his shouting, can set the rhythm with his pitching. That just as quickly as he had built up Seidou's momentum, he broke it at the time when Seidou needed it most.
Kazuya closes the tab and leans all the way back in his chair so that only two legs keep him aloft, precariously. The clock ticks away. Two hours had whizzed by as he was scrolling through the Seidou baseball team's history. One of the videos had recorded a perfect front view of Sawamura’s relief, and Kazuya had replayed those few minutes over and over, until he had Sawamura’s pitching form memorized, could trace the motion of Sawamura’s right leg in his head. It always seemed to Kazuya though, that watching these clips didn’t quite have the same thrill as watching from behind the home plate.
Ah, he chides himself, combing his hair back with his fingers, what am I doing? He wonders whether it’s normal to be so entranced by the pitcher who is second-rate, who isn’t trusted to pitch more than a few innings, who, for all the ways he's like the sun, can’t seem to break free of Furuya’s dominating shadow.
Then his chair slips and only his hand gripping the edge of the desk keeps him from crashing onto the floor.
----------
Autumn passes by faster than the longer days of summer, and Kazuya falls into the pattern of school, baseball practice, then home. Although Akagi wins their first game in the qualifiers, they lose in the second round. Kazuya’s game-calling can’t make up for the gap in their abilities, for dropped balls, for inexperience. When Kazuya is returning to the dugout, he overhears the opposite team’s coach comment, “That catcher is really something. If only,“ but Kazuya doesn’t need to hear the rest of that sentence.
The truth is, scouts don’t come all the way to this part of town looking for future stars, where farms and trees prevail, especially if the local team is made up a rag-tag group of neighborhood kids who play more for fun than for winning, who haven’t ever tasted victory. And without a scholarship, what with his father’s struggling steel company, Kazuya couldn’t afford to attend a private high school, let alone board at one. The bitterness of reality has softened to a grim acceptance, but that doesn’t stop Kazuya from fantasizing.
And just like that, as quick as a hit-by-pitch at the bottom of the ninth inning, Kazuya’s second season of baseball ends.
----------
Sawamura tramples back into Kazuya’s life as suddenly as he left it. Kazuya is lounging on the floor, tatami mats warmed, his legs tucked in a blanket to shield from the biting cold of winter, when there’s a rapping on the door, and a “Miyuki Kazuya!”
There’s only one person who addresses Kazuya using his first and last name, with zero honorifics, and Kazuya can guess who.
He leaves Sawamura knocking for twenty seconds, before finally opening the door to a Sawamura bundled in a striped scarf and maroon wool coat, his nose and cheeks a rosy red. Kazuya wonders whether it’s just his imagination, or did Sawamura become even leaner in the months apart, muscle masked under his layered clothes. The color choice, though, is something. He’s also toting a mysterious box, and - is that a fishing rod?
“We’re going fishing!”
So that’s what it is - what’s missing from the videos. From the perspective of an impartial observer, Sawamura is nothing more than an ordinary first-year pitcher, who has this ability to jam batters with just straights and yells more than any other player. The videos, however, were never able to capture the full package: his lacking baseball knowledge, his emotional pitching, but also his eagerness to improve, his fighting spirit. From the videos, no one could tell that Sawamura enjoyed running, was a part-time beetle specialist, had charmed the whole town and its people in a week.
But Kazuya doesn’t like water, unless it’s coming from a faucet or contained in a bottle.
“We haven’t seen each other in half a year, and that’s how you say hello?” Kazuya crosses his arms indifferently, but he can’t stop the beginnings of a curling, soft smile. “Welcome back.” Then, placing a hand on Sawamura's shoulder blade, he shoves him towards the exit. "I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No, no, no,” Sawamura protests, pushing back and using his hand as a doorstopper. “Let’s go ice-fishing!”
“It’s too cold to go outside,” Kazuya complains, heading back to the living room as a refusal to Sawamura’s plans. Sawamura can go fishing if he’d like, but Kazuya isn’t stepping a foot near the river, even if it’s coated in a protective sheet of frozen ice. Kazuya would do many things for Sawamura, but this isn’t one of them.
Maybe he sees something more than laziness in Kazuya’s eyes, but Sawamura surrenders. He digs into a box of old tapes next to the television, and pulls out a few, reading the title, before discarding them back into the cardboard box. “These all came out centuries ago! Do you even watch TV?”
“Of course,” Kazuya answers. He pauses, then adds, “I watch cooking shows.”
Sawamura gapes, almost dropping a tape that Kazuya recognizes as an old Christmas favorite. “Cooking shows?! Are you a housewife?”
“Cooking is an essential life skill. Are you planning to live with your mother for the rest of your life, Sawamura?”
Sawamura pouts, lip jutting out. “Okay, movie then.”
“Sure,” Kazuya agrees. Watching a movie means no physical activity, staying indoors, and mindless snacking. He walks over to the kitchen, where he pops a bag of microwaveable popcorn in the microwave. Kazuya isn’t a fan of sweet things, and he has a feeling Sawamura might prefer the kettle variety, but this is Kazuya’s house, so Kazuya’s rules. “You’re not gonna find any good movies in there,” he calls. The box is full of outdated shows from Kazuya’s childhood and before he was born, back when family time was a thing in this household. “I’ll pull one up on my laptop.”
“One of my senpai recommended me Kano! Have you heard of it?”
The microwave beeps, and in one hand, he’s holding a can of furikake for seasoning, and in the other, the bag of popcorn, now inflated like a balloon, gingerly holding the hot edges with his fingertips. “Nope. But I’m not updated with pop culture. It’s butter.”
Sawamura reaches for the popcorn in reply, and lets go of a handful, spilling it onto the floor. “It’s hot!”
Kazuya sighs. He takes Sawamura’s left hand, cradling it in his palm. “You need to protect your fingers, idiot. You’re a pitcher; they’re your life.” He gingerly inspects each phalange. Sawamura’s pointer and middle fingers are thicker than the rest.
Sawamura doesn’t snatch his hand away, instead watching Kazuya, who, feeling eyes on him, shoves Sawamura’s hand back.
Booting up his laptop, Kazuya looks up the movie summary on his phone. It figures, Kazuya thinks, that a team of baseball nerds would also watch baseball movies. Did they only play baseball video games too? Kano seems interesting enough, so he props his computer on his lap and begins streaming. The room suddenly goes dark, and Kazuya realizes that Sawamura turned off the lights. “We gotta have the real experience,” he explains, as he seats himself next to Kazuya, close enough that Kazuya can feel the heat emanating off his body.
Kazuya is finding it very difficult to concentrate.
That night, Kazuya tries not to be unsettled by what he knows are feelings forming in his heart, the feelings from summer that he had shoved away.
Tries not to be unsettled that he was in such a good mood post-movie, he was persuaded outside and goaded into a snowball fight. That he relished in the chance to run his hands through Sawamura’s mussed hair, by shoving snow on his head.
Tries not to be unsettled that when Sawamura had unconsciously pressed his right thigh against Kazuya’s left during a tense part, Kazuya didn’t move. That he could barely focus on the movie because Sawamura teared up when the underdog team won the all-island championships. That, out of all the characters in the movie, Kazuya relates most with, not the catcher, not any of the baseball players, but the ace’s female friend, who watches the pitcher from afar, via television.
After the credits had started playing, Sawamura had rolled onto his back. “You know,” he starts, then pauses, breaking the reflective silence that usually follows a movie.
“Hm?” Kazuya may be checking his email, but his full attention is centered on Sawamura.
Sawamura scratches his head sheepishly, running his fingers through the wispy strands. “I didn’t know this until after I got back from summer break,” he reveals wistfully, “but I had the yips.”
Shocked, Kazuya turns his head towards Sawamura, who is avoiding his eyes. “Yeah, so my master,” Kazuya chuckles at Sawamura showing so much respect to someone, “taught me how to pitch to the outside. And then I could pitch to the inside again! And then I learned the changeup!” He continues to babble about some Narumiya Mei, whose changeup apparently gave Seidou’s batters a really hard time, but Kazuya isn’t listening.
Kazuya doesn’t bring up that he already knows, because of the Internet, because he had followed every one of Sawamura’s matches in the weeks of the Fall Tournament.
----------
“You’re awfully busy nowadays,” Kuramochi notices, despite his eyes being trained on the screen. “Are you always with Sawamura?”
“I suppose,” Kazuya answers. He aggressively presses a few buttons on his controller, but he can’t beat Kuramochi’s hours of gaming. “He’s always dragging me out. What,” he simpers cheekily, “did you miss me?”
Kuramochi dodges Kazuya’s attempt at a subject change. “You can always say no, you know.” He chances a smirk that Kazuya thinks he got from Kazuya himself, “I think you actually like him.”
Kazuya’s breath catches in his throat. “Maybe,” he says, and with the gap in Kuramochi’s attention, he exploits the opportunity to send the killing blow on Kuramochi’s character. Kuramochi squawks, but it’s too late. Wiping his hands on his sweatpants, Kazuya stands up, walking away like the badass movie protagonist who had just obliterated the enemy, and is leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. “Nah, I just tolerate him. Just like how I tolerate you." He relishes in Kuramochi’s accusations of cheating, eyes no longer penetrating.
After all, Kuramochi has always been able to read Kazuya like a book, and he can be too observant for Kazuya’s liking.
----------
Life, Kazuya learns, has a way of turning upside down, going in circles, and all Kazuya can do is bump along, hoping that eventually he’ll reach a path that isn’t determined to trip him up.
It all starts with water.
During all the years Kazuya had lived in the house behind the forest, he never had the slightest inclination to explore the place where even the unmaintained roads faded into untamed grassland, and the sparse trees thickened to dense woods. But Sawamura is another story; for someone who grew up in the bustling city of skyscrapers, concrete streets, and people, he’s a true outdoorsman.
Kazuya follows him, not because he wants to, but because he doesn’t want the trouble if Sawamura finds himself in a predicament and winds up dead.
They’re standing near the stream, Sawamura teasing the strength of the ice with his weight, Kazuya a few meters farther back, when two familiar faces appear from behind the brush, accompanied by brawny bodies. Okada and Fukuda are seventeen now, but their favorite pastime hasn’t changed.
“Hey Kazuya,” Okada sneers, trampling and scarring the once-untouched snow. It’s usually an intimate thing, to use someone’s first name, but the only thing Kazuya feels is fear.
Kazuya steels himself, chasing away the memories encroaching his mind, that he had kept locked away, burying the key with them. He’s no longer eleven, scrawny, and barely one-and-a-half meters tall, he reminds himself. He’s changed.
Okada tilts his head towards the stream. “Ready for a dip?” He steps closer, threateningly, and it’s all Kazuya can do to stop himself from retreating. Instead, he places himself in front of Sawamura. He’d be damned if he let Sawamura get involved in his own problems. Okada’s attention turn to Sawamura. “Aw,” he croons, “how cute. Did we interrupt your date?”
Kazuya snaps, “Go to hell,” but for all the daggers he’s shooting with his eyes, they all seem to bounce off, unaffected.
“Who’re you?” Sawamura says coolly, his voice icy. The warmth that usually fills his molten gold eyes has evaporated, and he appraises them as if they’re just another batter. Except, Kazuya knows, this is a batter feared, a batter who hits home runs at his every at-bat. But Sawamura’s personality means that he’s immune to threats, entirely unfazed and ready to fight.
“We’re Kazuya’s friends. Right, Kazuya?” Okada coos, leaning in. Fukuda grunts. But Kazuya backs away, vigilant.
Sawamura warns, “Don’t touch him."
“Did you pick up this new kid from the streets?” Okada says, as if Sawamura isn’t there. “It’s a shame he wouldn’t make a good guard dog."
Kazuya knows that it’d be smarter to flee. They’re cornered; a stream behind them, the boys in front. Okada and Fukuda tower over them, twin slabs of impenetrable rock, and they’re bulky, armed with too much muscle. But Sawamura is steady next to him, tossing a piece of ice back and forth, like his hands are playing catch with each other, and for some reason Kazuya feels like Sawamura is about to do something crazy. And that's all Kazuya needs. He’s just as prideful as he was years ago, and he’d rather come home with bruises and black eyes than admit defeat.
“You scared? Don’t worry, I won’t sic him on you,” Kazuya taunts, positioning himself protectively in front of Sawamura, and thankfully his voice comes out clear, without trembling, and just as he predicts, the two brutes pounce.
But before they can lay a hand on Kazuya, a chunk of ice disappears from Kazuya's periphery and is flying towards Okada, who yells out, “Holy fuck!”
Kazuya doesn’t know what’s more shocking: their frightened faces, or the blurring, whipping motion of Sawamura’s arm. Sawamura’s pelting the chunks of ice, that he’d chipped away from the river bank, at Okada and Fukuda, so fast, so accurately that they miss Okada’s and Fukuda’s heads by a hair. Their hands rise to cover their heads protectively, and they’re kneeling on the ground, begging, “Please, dude, stop.”
“Say you’ll leave us alone,” Sawamura demands, not stopping his volley of hail, “say it.”
“Okay, okay, we promise,” Okada whimpers, and Kazuya is equally stunned, as they cower and withdraw.
When they're all gone, the only trace of them the imprints left by their shoes, Sawamura claps a gloved hand on Kazuya's shoulder. "Your taste in friends is awful." His face is fierce, hardened. "Let's go home, I'm freezing."
"That's true," Kazuya agrees with a nod. "I'm friends with you after all." He throws an arm around Sawamura, Sawamura's neck in the crock of his elbow, as Sawamura sputters, but Sawamura's hand is still on Kazuya's shoulder, keeping himself upright. It's a comforting weight.
When he looks back at the frozen river, its sheet of ice so clear he can see his own reflection, there’s no longer a tiny boy, with his face submerged in the water of the school toilet, but the door to the bathroom stall wide open, free.
----------
“Will that be all?” The waitress asks, stacking the menus neatly in her arms. She’s a pretty girl, petite and slim limbs, with doe brown eyes and hair cropped short; Kazuya’s seen her around Akagi, the manager for the baseball team who Kazuya doesn’t really interact with, and he only knows she’s a year under. In his periphery, he notices Kuramochi’s eyes on her, practically exploding with hearts, and he conspiratorially files this new piece of information away.
“Yeah! Thanks Wakana.” Sawamura beams at her, too friendly to be just polite, and Wakana blushes pink, to the chagrin of Kuramochi, and Kazuya wants to laugh, because Sawamura is completely oblivious to Kuramochi’s new crush.
When Wakana is out of sight, Kuramochi grills Sawamura, knuckles cracking. “Who’s that? A girl, Sawamura? Are you guys dating? Is she your girlfriend?”
“No!” Sawamura denies immediately, with his mouth and hand gestures, “We met over the summer, and we exchanged emails. She really likes baseball, so," as if that’s a sufficient explanation. “A lot of times, I forget to reply though, but Wakana’s a good friend!”
Kuramochi is on the verge of tackling Sawamura, right there, but that wouldn’t go so well in a restaurant, and the last thing Kazuya wants is to be kicked out when his stomach is growling and he’s starving, and he really wants his udon soup. The emptiness of his stomach has nothing to do with Wakana.
“Not here, Kuramochi.” Sawamura sends him a thankful look, which, “but once we’re home, by all means,” quickly turns betrayed.
"Kuramochi," Sawamura whines, "can't you just use a pillow or something?"
"Nope," Kuramochi answers without hesitation, and they barrel into a bickering argument that has Sawamura pulling his skin and Kuramochi laughing at his expense. Kazuya watches them fondly, glad that Sawamura's ability to get along with anyone extends to Kuramochi, and that Sawamura isn't scared of Kuramochi's wild hair and delinquent face.
Three steaming bowls of noodles arrive, and Kazuya feels so warm.
----------
Kazuya had met Kuramochi in middle school, when they were assigned to the same class, and funnily enough, they started off as rivals, competing in P.E. for the teacher’s favor. Kazuya had perceived, underneath the scary face that girls shied away from and the hair that classmates looked upon with upturned noses, a heart of gold. These two misfits, a boy who couldn’t dull his sharp words, and a boy backstabbed by his own clique, found companionship in each other.
Before Kuramochi, however, Kazuya had been a loner, by choice, mostly. He didn’t dislike company, but it was Okada and Fukuda, the most notorious bullies of the town, that had scared away all the other students from interacting with Kazuya, lest they too become the target of their harassment by association.
Their conflict had started with baseball. A first-year and brilliant, Kazuya had been selected to play catcher from the start. Naturally, his teammates didn’t like taking orders from the youngest team member, but Kazuya had shown his prowess, and gradually they developed respect for him. Only, Okada didn’t take it so well when Kazuya had criticized his sluggish defense, and as Okada’s best friend, Fukuda had also come to defend Okada's honor.
Kazuya had been obliterated. Two on one, and significantly shorter, he didn’t stand a chance. They called him girly and weak for his pretty-boy face, framed by elegant eyebrows, his longer hair. Day after day, Kazuya took the brunt of their punches, and patched himself up with band-aids, returning the following day, rinse and repeat. Kazuya had kept his bruises carefully hidden, to avoid catching the attention of an authority figure, because doing so would mean giving up his last scrap of pride.
There was a time though, when the stash of band aids he kept in his backpack had gone empty, and he visited the school nurse. He was young, fresh out of college, tanned and tall, with dark eyes and hair ash brown, the one the girls in his class had professed marriage proposals.
"I need something for my cut," Kazuya had said, voice strong. Okada or Fukuda, one of them hadn't clipped their nails. "I have to get back to class, so please make it quick."
"Oh?" Matsuda-san's eyebrows had been raised high. "How did you get that?"
"A paper cut," Kazuya had answered smoothly, avoiding staring at the man who was too handsome to be a school nurse. “It was an -"
Before he could finish his sentence though, cool, latex-covered fingers were pressing a white bandage on his cheek. Kazuya whiffed light cologne, musky and woodsy, as Matsuda-san leaned in to finish his care.
"Do you want some ointment to take back with you? It'll help prevent scarring." His smile is too gentle, too kind.
Kazuya had opened his mouth to say yes, but he hesitated, heart pounding harder than it did when the bullies had knocked into him purposefully. "No, thank you."
He doesn't want to ever forget it happened. He’ll wear them proudly, a testament to what he fought. It’s not a saving grace, that Okada and Fukuda had enrolled in a vocational high school, but a battle, a war, he survived.
----------
Kazuya’s idea of a relaxing New Year involves his bed, and not much else. But here he is, waiting with Kuramochi for Sawamura in front of a shrine. Personally, Kazuya doesn’t believe in deities, doesn't partake in any religion, not Shinto nor Buddhism as most of Japan does, but he’s willing to go along for tradition’s sake.
“Is it just me," Kuramochi says, staring at a distance, "or does it look like Sawamura's the mama duck leading a bunch of ducklings?" He gestures towards Sawamura, who’s approaching them, and sure enough, he’s followed by a group of five or so other kids, one of whom, Kazuya recognizes as the waitress girl from the soba restaurant. Wakana, Sawamura had said her name was.
Sawamura is cheerfully chattering with his friends, each of them drawn by his magnetic persona, and when he catches sight of Kazuya and Kuramochi, he breaks into a run, his voice reaching them much faster than his physical body, “Happy New Year!!”
Kazuya's always thought that these holiday sentiments felt superficial, something said more out of respect and custom than actual wishes. But coming from Sawamura, it sounds almost genuine, since he has a talent of infecting everyone within a two kilometer radius with his excitement.
Kazuya's caught the disease as well.
"I feel like," Kazuya says, facing Kuramochi, when Sawamura's close enough to overhear, "sound travels twice as fast when it's coming from Sawamura's mouth."
Kuramochi puts Sawamura in a headlock before he can yell another word, and Sawamura wheezes, "I'm... I'm out of air!"
"I'll let you go if you promise to only use your breath for breathing!"
Kuramochi lets him go, and Sawamura falls to the force of gravity, gasping, knees crashing to the ground, but he's resilient as ever, immediately bouncing to his feet, and starts to introduce the second-years to his friends.
"We already know Miyuki-senpai," the bright-eyed boy with his hair cut so that his sideburns are shaved stylishly says, nodding respectfully at Kazuya. Nobu is the first-year catcher that Kazuya's been patiently training, though if he had to be honest, Nobu is lacking the strong shoulder and game sense required of the position.
"Senpai - senpai?!" Sawamura repeats. Flabbergasted is probably Kazuya’s favorite look on Sawamura.
"He's our captain," Wakana scolds lightly, and Kazuya watches with glee as Kuramochi turns red when he catches her presence. "Miyuki-senpai guides the team. Without him, we'd probably lose every game, but we win one here and there."
"Call me senpai too, Sawamura," Kuramochi taunts, and Sawamura swears to never address them that way as long as he lives.
Inside the shrine, after ladling water into his hands and mouth to rinse them clean, Kazuya bows and claps as everyone does, lowering his head at the altar and praying for health, he supposes. Sawamura buys everyone fortunes, and demands to know what each one said. Kazuya's frugal ways succumbs to the aroma of oyaki, and a vendor hands him a warm ball of dough, stuffed with vegetables and meat, wrapped in a napkin. The juices explode delightfully in his mouth when he bites into it, as does his brain when Sawamura leans in and steals a mouthful, and ultimately Kazuya only gets that first bite because Kuramochi finishes it off. Sawamura's friends seem intimidated by Kazuya at first; spending time with their captain outside of practice scares them, but gradually they loosen up. Unlike Kuramochi and Kazuya, however, who never fail to utilize every opportunity to poke fun at Sawamura, they gaze at Sawamura with hero-worship in their eyes, and Kazuya is exposed to a side of Sawamura he's never seen before, the side that acts as an older brother and dotes on his friends. Wakana, though, is another story, and Kazuya spots her stealing too many glances for someone who treats him with shy indifference, and the implications has him avoiding her and turning his head away whenever Sawamura engages her in conversation.
When the sky blends into a myriad of colors of sunset, they walk home, and eventually, one by one, each person parts ways, until it's just Sawamura and Kazuya left.
"Today was so much fun," Sawamura says, his boots making crunching sounds on the snow, "let's do this again sometime!"
"Idiot," Kazuya replies, and he flicks Sawamura's nose, "that won't be until next year."
Sawamura shivers, and Kazuya notices that he's missing a glove. Sighing, he begins to peel off his own, but thinks better.
"What," Sawamura yelps, and Kazuya smirks. Sawamura's bare hand is ice cold, but it'll thaw in the heat of Kazuya's gloved hand. He yanks him closer, until they're side by side, because it's uncomfortable on his elbow with his arm stretched out awkwardly, and he shoves both of their hands snug into his coat pocket. Normally, Kazuya wouldn't do something so daring, but the New Year frenzy and Wakana has him on edge. "You don't have to do this," Sawamura mumbles stubbornly, head turned aside.
Sawamura is so...endearing like this.
They walk silently together, the ringing of the temple bell fading into the background. Almost silently, more like, since Sawamura is sound personified, and he's humming an overplayed pop tune that cements itself in Kazuya's head too. When they arrive at Sawamura's house, Sawamura removes his hand and faces Kazuya. His face is flushed and a bit too pensive, so Kazuya discreetly slips off his gloves and presses his hands to Sawamura's face.
Sawamura flinches back from the temperature difference. "What was that for?!"
"You looked too serious. I had to warm you up," Kazuya answers, winking deviously, innuendos notwithstanding.
Sawamura predictably falls into a tirade about how Kazuya is a sneaky fox bastard, and the sneaky fox bastard laughs and laughs and laughs as Sawamura's yanking at his coat collar, because Sawamura is so easy to read, at least, when he's off the field, and he's just glad that Sawamura hadn't noticed that his heart is racing its way to a heart attack, and he hadn't wanted to let go of Sawamura's hand, and that euphoria is consuming him.
Then Kazuya freezes, not from the cold, but because Sawamura is untying his own scarf and wrapping it around and around Kazuya's neck.
"There," Sawamura huffs, stepping back, neck now bare. "That's payback."
Kazuya touches the scarf. It's a scarlet red, and the imperfections, the protruding loops in the knitting bely that it's handmade. "Aw, did someone give this to you? Wakana?" He throws out.
"Yeah," Sawamura shrugs nonchalantly, and Kazuya freezes, because he wasn’t expecting that, because only couples knitted things for each other. "For Christmas."
Kazuya forces a laugh. "You should've told us that you guys were together, instead of torturing all of us by making us third wheel on your date!”
Sawamura, sensing a change in the atmosphere, a coldness that’s not coming from the weather, looks confused. “But we’re not dating.”
“Lying already, Sawamura? That’s not how you want to start off the new year!"
“I’m not lying - “ Sawamura looks hurt, but Kazuya’s even more hurt, and he can’t put a stop to his words.
“If you’re hiding the truth because of Kuramochi, I promise not to tell him!"
And Sawamura explodes. “Why aren’t you listening? I’ve said it a million times,” his voice escalates, "but you and Kuramochi keep on teasing me about Wakana. We’re friends. I don’t like her like that. I’m being honest. But you,” and he fizzles out, “maybe you should be more honest to yourself. You're, you’re always touching me. You’re always making fun of me, but sometimes you’ll do something nice, and it just, my head’s spinning like a top. Then you turn around and say things, like when you tried to set me up with Wakana today. So just, just stop it."
And Kazuya is yanking the scarf off, so frustrated, freeing himself from the smell of clean linen, grass, and baseball leather, from the softness of the yarn, and lobbing it like a whip against Sawamura, and letting go. Then he turns around and walks away, the pretty sunset now a terrible, almost pitch black darkness of night.
----------
Kazuya can tell that Kuramochi knows something’s up because all of a sudden, Kazuya’s left with so much time on his hands that he even asked to tag along on Kuramochi’s daily gym workout.
He’s fiddling with the lock to the school gym, squatting, poking the unwound paper clip in the keyhole until it catches onto something. “So, what got you out of bed? I always invite you, but you never agree to exercise with me.”
“No reason,” Kazuya says. “Spring season’s coming up, and I’m out of shape.”
The lock clicks open, and Kuramochi stands up, triumphant. “Okay,” he says, seeming to have dismissed the subject, but he's looking at Kazuya with this studiousness, and Kazuya just knows that he’s seen through Kazuya’s bluff. Then he slaps the small of Kazuya’s back, saying, “You’ve putting on weight, and it's not muscle, Miyuki!"
Kazuya then proceeds to crush Kuramochi in squats, leaving the loser whining that all Kazuya does is sit anyway, so of course his gluteal muscles would be stronger.
Kuramochi does his routine sprints, while Kazuya runs on the treadmill, earbuds plugged in, blocking out everything with his high-paced electronic music, until his legs feel like they're about to fall off, to the point where he almost collapses in exhaustion as he steps off the machine, and Kuramochi has to grab his arm to steady him. It's one of his best runs, in terms of distance.
"That's fucking gross," Kuramochi comments, tossing one of the disinfectant wipes they keep around for wiping down equipment. "Clean up your sweat. Just because your face is pretty doesn’t mean that your sweat is any nicer to smell!"
“Hm, I heard girls find sweat attractive…” Kazuya says, dabbing at his forehead with a towel, and Kuramochi attacks Kazuya with disinfectant wipes, using them on him, even though he’s definitely not an exercise machine.
They head home after that to shower, not before confirming that the place looks just as when they had arrived. Kuramochi complains about his times going up, making predictions of how his track coach will punish him, and Kazuya listens with half an ear, his mind elsewhere.
When he had gotten sick of his running playlist, he had switched to a podcast. The radio host talked about the Harlow experiments, where an American psychologist had placed baby monkeys in the same cage as two "substitute" mothers. One was made of wood, but swathed in cloth, the other of metallic wire. Even when the clothed mother had been modified to shoot out spikes to push away the babies, the babies still came running back, craving touch.
Before, Kazuya had felt like the mother monkey, and Sawamura was the one who clung to him like some stubborn koala.
Kazuya realizes that the reverse is true too, that no matter how much he tried to cast aside his affections, he was still inexplicably drawn to Sawamura, who accepted him with open arms.
Now though, he's the subject monkey that was placed in complete isolation.
----------
Kazuya's relieved when classes go into session again, and even more elated when baseball practice starts in February. He pays attention in class, doing just the bare minimum to avoid academic probation, but never excelling. He's never felt a gravitation towards any subject really, but he does have a knack for math, since calculating feels a lot like playing catcher: planning how to approach a problem, executing the plan, and watching all the little steps come together for the grand finale.
The coach motivates them with optimistic visions of Koshien, but everyone knows in their hearts that it's a distant, out-of-reach dream for them, who have only started to make it past the first preliminary round when Kazuya joined. And in the third qualifier, they go against a Koshien regular that steals all the command Kazuya usually orchestrates on the field, stealing runs, bases, points, and most importantly, their ticket to Koshien, and they lose overwhelmingly.
There's a shining beacon for Kuramochi, at least, who attracts the attention of university scouts, who seek rumors of the country youth that can sprint, leaving all the city kids in his dust.
Although "Sawamura," "Seidou," even "pitcher" haven't crossed Kazuya's internet search history since winter, Sawamura still manages to infiltrate Kazuya's life, and it’s so, so weird, that he feels like they’ve broken up, when they were never together to begin with. Kazuya sees it in the house slippers that Sawamura had unofficially laid claim to; only later does he finally put them away, on the shoe rack that includes a pink pair that’ll never be used again. He sees it when once, distracted, he had asked for a splitter into the chest of the batter from the pitcher whose only breaking ball was a curve. He hears it in the house, where the silence, which used to be natural in the Miyuki home, now feels deafening, and he wakes up prematurely, thirty minutes before his alarm is set to go off, because he was expecting someone at his doorstep.
One time Kazuya walks into practice to find half the team crowded around a magazine. He's about to scold them when he catches the face in the main photo, and Kazuya, who usually is able to keep outside emotions separate from baseball, who usually, with his more softhearted underclassmen, would advise but never berate, barks at a younger teammate who fails to make the catch at second base, and Kazuya only realizes the acerbity of his words when the kid bursts into tears.
His bitter mood diffuses through the remaining day, that even Kuramochi tells him off for it, and Kazuya gives the boy an apologetic nod the next day. He doesn't speak to Wakana, opting for the other manager, only giving her a distant thank you for her hard work.
T-shirts replace chunky sweaters, and they're replaced by tank tops, and Kazuya's now a third-year, retired, and holding a blank career planning sheet. For Kuramochi's birthday, he cooks omurice, sprinkled with diced steak because his measly budget can't afford flanks, and Kuramochi is nice for a record breaking two hours and thirteen minutes.
Sawamura doesn't come home for spring break, and he'll be away during summer as long as Seidou is still in the running for the national championships.
Kazuya starts preparing for university entrance exams, but the dedication he has for baseball doesn't transfer to his studies, so he spends a lot of time at Kuramochi's place.
One particular day of summer vacation, Kazuya's lounging on Kuramochi's bed, rereading the message for what is probably the tenth time today, even though he's got it memorized verbatim, and even remembers the timestamp, by the second, minute, hour, day. No matter how long he stares at the words, they don’t change. He’s stuck in this interspace, and he can’t make his decision. Exhaling, he snaps his phone closed.
“You know,” Kuramochi calls, as the animated character swings his sword down on his opponent, multitasking expertly with the years of experience spent gaming, “you’ve spent the last hour staring at your phone.”
“My phone is more interesting than your games. Are you that eager to get creamed?” Kazuya retorts, but it’s lacking the usual bite.
“Sawamura,” Kuramochi starts, but Kazuya cuts him off.
“Jealous of him and the cute waitress girl? Don’t be, you were never competition from the start!” Kazuya’s brain starts painting a pretty picture of Sawamura and Wakana strolling through the town, hand in hand, with two brown-eyed, brown-haired children chasing butterflies in front of them, and Kazuya’s stomach starts twisting itself into knots upon knots, into stitches like the ones that compose that scarf. He’s a hypocrite.
“I didn’t bring him up to talk about Wakana!”
“Hm, really? It seems like she’s all you want to talk about nowadays."
"That's because you're a freaking house cat and nothing interesting ever goes on in your life," Kuramochi growls, over the cackling in the background.
Kazuya watches distractedly, as Kuramochi unleashes curses under his breath at the enemy on the screen.
“He’s been making the news,” Kuramochi throws out almost offhandedly. The game is paused, and Kuramochi’s typing something into his phone, then “here,” as it lands into Kazuya’s lap.
The top two search results don’t have changeup, strikeout, or no-hitter in the title. Kazuya wouldn’t know; he hasn’t followed Sawamura since that winter. It’s the last thing Kazuya expects to read, but there it is: “Fearless High School Pitcher Comes Out” and “Sawamura Eijun is Japan’s First Openly Gay Teen Athlete.” The next few articles are about Seidou versing other top teams, but Kazuya’s attention is glued to the first two. Sawamura had come out, during a pep rally, revealing his sexual orientation to his teammates, the brass band, the cheerleaders, stealing the show like the selfish pitcher he is, the school newspaper had reported. Fearless, Kazuya thinks, is a word that perfectly describes Sawamura, in pitching and attitude. Because Sawamura had made a momentous, maybe even historic, decision to publicize his sexuality, in a country that embraces the group over individuality, that disapproves of differences. There were so many consequences: his scholarship, possible social rejection, yet he had still decided to pitch that changeup to the left-handed batter.
Kuramochi narrows his eyes, "I don't know what the hell happened between you and Sawamura, but you need to go and fix it."
"Nothing happened -"
"Bull," Kuramochi interrupts, "shit. You've been moping around, when university exams are right around the corner. I've seen you play," Kuramochi's voice turns tender, "and I know you can make it big, if you could test high enough for a good university. You can escape this trap.” He’s ruffling through the top drawer of his dresser, where Kazuya knows Kuramochi stores his socks and underwear, but also hides his most treasured things, and he pulls out something. "Go and get him," Kuramochi says softly, pressing the crisp paper to Kazuya’s chest.
Printed on the pale turquoise paper, the first word Kazuya reads is Tokyo. The fare must've been expensive, especially for a high school student. He wonders how many weeks of allowance it cost him. "How did you -"
"Do you think I'm stupid? You never check your phone, because you're an outdated old man, but I've seen you open up that text every five minutes for the past week."
And Kazuya's reaching out, to take the train tickets, which offer so much more than a trip to Tokyo. "I," but words have fallen out of Kazuya’s mouth, abandoning him.
Kuramochi shoves him. “If you’re late and miss your ride,” he threatens, “I’m not buying you another ticket,” but there’s no sharpness in his tone, and Kazuya believes that he would do it, because Kuramochi’s always been that type of person. “Miyuki,” he repeats urgently, and Kazuya’s so overcome with emotion, because he can't recall a time when he had reciprocated the kindness Kuramochi had shown him, over and over again.
----------
The stadium is packed. People of all ages, children, students, adults who should be at work, fill the stands, and it takes a lot of clever maneuvering on Kazuya’s part to find a seat near the front. Kazuya can tell, from the cheering fans, the booming brass band, that the game’s already started. The scoreboard tells him that it’s the fifth inning, and Seidou’s defending. Seidou is also down by two points.
It’s not until he recognizes the blue-and-shining-white uniforms of the players in the dugout that he realizes that he’s sitting right above the bullpen.
“Player change,” the announcer’s voice sounds overhead, “pitcher, Sawamura-kun. Pitcher, Sawamura-kun.”
A familiar figure is running up to the mound, and even though it’s been months since Kazuya’s been this close to Sawamura, he’s never felt so far away.
Kazuya can’t hear what the other Seidou teammates, crowded around Sawamura, are saying, but he can tell, that they trust him. Trust him to pitch his best, to lift the team’s morale, and they’ve got his back, literally. Maybe it’s his imagination, but their shoulders have relaxed, because Sawamura can turn this game around. Something about Sawamura makes everyone on the field want to dive for the ball, to scramble for every chance of victory.
And when each player is in position, Sawamura faces each fielder. With his arm outstretched, pointing towards the sky, in true Sawamura fashion, he roars, “I’m counting on you! Let’s show everyone Seidou’s baseball!!"
“What do you think we’ve been doing for the past hour, idiot?”
“Hurry up and pitch already, I’m running out of fluids to sweat."
“Don’t waste all your energy shouting, Eijun-kun.”
One may not be the number pinned to Sawamura’s back, but Sawamura is radiating with the spirit of an ace.
From the stands where the rest of the Seidou baseball club is seated, a voice echoes, “Show the world all the balls you’ve got,” and it seems like the whole team is laughing, as someone else pipes up, "if you don't pitch, I'll make sure you haven't got any balls left to pitch with!"
Sawamura turns around to face the batter, his cap downturned, a shadow obscuring his face. Then the sun shines down, like a spotlight on a stage, and Sawamura’s the main performance, grinning as if there aren’t three runners and zero outs.
For the entirety of the game, Kazuya can’t take his eyes away. The nimble-footed second baseman coordinates with the shortstop to pull off a double-play; together, and along with the first and third basemen, they form an Iron Wall that permits no ball past them. The outfielders sprint, chase, lunge for the rare ball that flies. The catcher may be the puppet master, but it’s the pitcher who unites them all.
“And Seidou steals the win from defending champion Inashiro Industrial! Please, a huge congratulations to the West Tokyo champions, Seidou High School! They will be one of the two Tokyo representatives at the 90th Summer Koshien!”
The twenty players of Seidou form their own mound on top of the pitcher’s mound, and in the center of it all, is Sawamura.
----------
The Seidou baseball fields are everything Kazuya had dreamed of, and it’s a bit cruel, to be standing right here, yet be unable to play. Even in the darkening sunset, with the place only illuminated by lampposts, he can tell that the fields are well-groomed.
Kazuya squats in the catcher’s box, resting his arms on his legs, which are exhausted from running around the Tokyo train stationc, asking strangers for directions to Seidou High School. The school has two training grounds, and Kazuya’s willing to bet that they even have an indoor practice area for rainy days. He pulls out his flip phone from his rear pocket, and opens it, staring at the wallpaper. It’s a fuzzy selfie of Sawamura and Kuramochi, who had filched Kazuya’s phone when he had gone to the bathroom during one of their hangouts. Sawamura’s flashing a peace sign, and Kuramochi is childishly sticking out his tongue.
He scrolls down through his contacts list, and pauses at the entry: “Sawamura.” His thumb hovers, trembling, over the green call button, which gleams like it’s also giving Kazuya the go sign.
"Miyuki?!"
Kazuya looks up, and there stands Sawamura, sweaty and hair disheveled. Behind him is a tire, and Kazuya throws his head back and laughs.
"Hey," he says, collecting himself, and for the first time, he's the one asking: "wanna play catch," because baseball's always been the means they communicate best.
Sawamura's mouth drops open, gawking like he can't trust his eyes.
"I'm only gonna ask you once," Kazuya drawls, lazily. He can’t believe he traveled almost three hundred kilometers for this.
"I - what are you even doing here,” Sawamura says, pointing accusingly at the Nagano native. “You don’t go to Seidou, you imposter!”
Kazuya wraps his palm around Sawamura's hand, folding the finger down into a fist. "You're awfully disrespectful, considering that you're the one who invited me."
"I didn't know you came! And I invited you to the game, not here!"
"So unwelcoming to me," Kazuya whines, slowly easing back into the banter that always came naturally between them, "I wonder who taught you the cutter that Inajitsu's clean up struck out swinging?"
"Shut up and catch for me!"
And this feels so familiar to Kazuya, nostalgia seeping through his veins, who missed this so much, even though this time they're not even wearing their mitts, and throwing the ball back and forth is more of a conversation than practice. And when Kazuya asks for the cutter, and catches it barehanded, this time he doesn't return it. Sawamura crosses the eighteen meters that separates them, and instead of reaching for the ball, he grabs Kazuya's hand. Is this okay, his eyes seem to ask, uncertain. Kazuya tightens his grip and laces their fingers together.
Together, they can be the metaphorical battery that can face everything: from the most elite baseball teams to the Okadas and Fukudas of the real world. They’ll have all the time in the world to talk things out. Sawamura always drags them headfirst into everything, after all. It’s summer now, and Kazuya feels like summer can last forever.